Crowner's Quest

by Bernard Knight

  Thankfully, as it turned out, he had not gone too far down this road before it collapsed under him. By the time the old Queen, Eleanor, had mobilised action against the rebels, shortly before Coeur de Lion was released from captivity, de Revelle had been promised the sheriffdom of Devon through the influence of barons sympathetic to the Count. When the revolt crumbled, he had been brushed with the same tar of disgrace as the other rebels, and his elevation to sheriff suspended. This was when Henry de la Pomeroy’s father had been driven to suicide. Only the casual, irresponsible pardon granted by the King to his brother and most of the rebels got Richard de Revelle off the hook and eventually allowed him to take up the sheriff’s post.

  Now the whole cycle appeared to be beginning again, and as he lay on his cold bed he wished that he had stayed content with his lot. The worm of ambition still wriggled within him, but the last day or two had made him doubt that the price he paid in anguish was worth the tenuous prize at the end.

  At the meeting in Berry Pomeroy, two days before, he had put forward his feeble plan to shame de Wolfe into silence as a desperate attempt to avoid the present situation dreamed up by Bernard Cheevers and de Braose of having the coroner in gaol for alleged rape so that he could be judicially strangled! For the sheriff, the situation had snowballed into a nightmare, out of control and irreversible. He tossed and turned, and cursed – the curses aimed as much at himself for becoming so involved, as at de Wolfe for being such an iron-headed, stubborn fool, yet a fool who commanded respect for his loyalty, as compared with de Revelle’s own repeated treachery.

  Before sleep born of exhaustion claimed him, he had a last waking nightmare: he had to face Matilda in the morning and tell her that her husband was now a ravisher as well as an adulterer, and that by the end of the week she was likely to be a felon’s widow.

  As always, it was impossible to keep anything quiet in the small city of Exeter. Soon after dawn the rumour went around like wildfire that Sir John de Wolfe, the coroner, was in Rougemont gaol, though as yet no one knew why. When he came off duty, the guard at the gatehouse had told his drinking friends the news, they had told their wives, and as soon as the stall-holders and hawkers flooded through the opened city gates, the gossip flashed through the city like fire through a cornfield.

  Gwyn heard it when he was buying a slab of cheese at a stall just inside the East Gate as he came in from St Sidwell’s. Astounded, he hurried towards the castle and overtook Thomas de Peyne, who was limping as fast as he could up the hill, after hearing of his master’s plight from a cook in the close, who had been out to buy butter for breakfast. Anxiously, they both went through the gate, noticing that the guards had been doubled. No one had orders to prevent the coroner’s staff from entering – and, anyway, Gwyn would probably have throttled anyone who tried to stop him. They dived down the steps to the undercroft, Thomas hobbling and hopping to keep up with the Cornishman’s determined strides. The gate to the cells was locked, so Gwyn thundered over to Stigand’s cubicle, where the gross gaoler was boiling something in a pot. ‘Open that bloody gate, you fat toad! I have to see to the coroner at once.’

  The bloated Saxon looked up from his cooking with a sneer. ‘No one is to speak to him, I have strict orders.’

  Gwyn was in no mood to discuss the matter. He grabbed the shoulders of Stigand’s dirty smock in both hands and jerked him clear off the ground. Shaking him violently, he hissed in his face, ‘Listen, you bag of slime, open that gate or I’ll twist your head off!’

  Convinced in an instant, the repulsive guardian of the prison almost ran across the gloomy vault, with Gwyn prodding him all the way, Thomas following behind. When, hands shaking, the gaoler had manipulated his keys to let them in, Gwyn grabbed them from him and ordered the clerk to lock the gate. ‘We don’t want this bladder of lard running to raise the alarm,’ he snapped. Turning to the cell door, he peered in and found de Wolfe’s face within inches of his own on the other side of the grille. ‘We’ll have you out in a moment, Crowner! Thomas, bring those keys here.’

  During the night de Wolfe had had plenty of time to think. ‘No, Gwyn, that’s not the way. The guards may have let you in but they certainly won’t let me out. In any case, I’m not going to run from my own city. If you try to force a way out, you’ll be trapped too.’

  He explained quickly what had happened and how he had been tricked by Jocelin and the others. Gwyn was all for seeking out de Braose and dissecting him with a blunt knife, but again John restrained his violent inclinations. ‘You must stay free, it’s vital – and you, Thomas. You are my only link with the outside. Gwyn, you must go quietly out and straightaway ride into the county to alert those barons and knights we know are loyal to the King. Lord Ferrars, and Reginald de Courcy – you remember them from that business of Fitzosbern a few weeks ago. They will spread the message to others they know. Tell them that a rebellion is brewing again and that Pomeroy, Cheever and de Nonant are behind it in Devon.’ Something kept him from including the sheriff in his list. ‘Say that I have been falsely accused of a felony to keep me quiet and need assistance straight away. That will be sufficient to bring them post-haste into the city.’

  He turned his face to his clerk, his gaunt features dirty and more unshaven than usual, and bent to lower his great height to the aperture. ‘Thomas, go to the Archdeacon with the same story as fast as your little legs will carry you. Also tell him that the men who killed the canon are behind this. Now go, both of you, and don’t get caught or I’m done for!’

  He moved back into his cell to forestall any argument from Gwyn, who would have been willing to demolish the gaol stone by stone to free his master. But the big man had recognised the urgency in the coroner’s voice and did as he was told. ‘Get going, dwarf, down to the Close.’ He opened the gate and gave Thomas a push to send him on his way. Stigand tried to follow, but Gwyn grabbed him by the collar and dragged him up to the large cell at the end, where three ragged men waited to be hanged the next day. Unlocking their gate with Stigand’s keys, he thrust the gaoler inside and locked up again. He marched out, oblivious to the yells and screams of the fat sadist as the condemned felons worked off their anger on him.

  He caught up with the limping clerk after a few yards, and they walked with exaggerated casualness to the gate, then hurried down to the town to do as they had been bidden.

  Meanwhile, the sheriff was steeling himself for the show-down with his sister. Though he normally ate at the top table in the hall, this morning he ordered his steward to serve it in his office chamber. Resentful at being banished from his sleeping place, the man banged mugs and dishes on the table with surly indifference, but de Revelle was in no mood to worry about servants. Lucille had been sent to eat with the other maids in the kitchen, and as soon as the food was laid out, he dismissed the steward.

  Then he tapped on the inner door and called Matilda to breakfast. There was no answer and he knocked harder, then harder again. With foreboding building, he put his head around the door and saw that she was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, staring fixedly at the narrow window-slit. Eventually, after several invitations, which became more terse as his frayed patience became thinner, she rose and walked past him without a look or a word.

  ‘Bloody women!’ he muttered under his breath, but chivalrously held the only chair for her to sit, while he took a stool opposite. Though Richard had little appetite, incredibly Matilda had none. She broke some bread and made a pretence of eating, but mostly sat with her head lowered. He noticed tears welling from inside her thick eyelids, but no sound came from her as he summoned up courage to tell her about her husband.

  Pouring a little heated ale into her already full cup, he cleared his throat. ‘Matilda, I have some disturbing news, I fear.’ She made no response, but the two trickles down each side of her rather flat nose reached her upper lip. De Revelle failed to understand the depth of her apparent grief at her husband’s infidelity. He knew that she had been well aware of his long-standing af
fair with the woman at the Bush Inn – he had heard her on many occasions taunting de Wolfe with the ‘Welsh whore’, as she was wont to call her. Why she should be so ravaged by the disclosure of his adultery with the Dawlish wife was quite beyond him, as she had often accused John of affairs with women other than Nesta. But thinking of the often irrational behaviour of his own wife, he mentally shrugged it off as a typically female aberration.

  The problem still remained of breaking the worse news to her. ‘During the night, a terrible thing has happened, Matilda dear. I see no way of breaking it gently. John is in the castle gaol, beneath us. He has been accused of ravishing a woman of the town. That she is little better than a harlot makes little difference, as there were four witnesses and the girl insists on Appealing him at the County Court this morning.’

  Her head came up slowly and she fixed him with a blank stare, the like of which he had never seen on her before, neither in childhood, nor since. For a moment, he feared that she had gone quite mad. He gabbled on, beginning to be gripped by the fear of being in the company of someone mentally ill. ‘I have to hold the court, Matilda, I have no choice. This is none of my doing, this Appeal comes from that woman, supported by her friends who caught John in his lecherous act! I am only carrying out my duty as the King’s sheriff in this county.’

  There was a crash as Matilda’s chair went over backwards. She had shot to her feet, glaring at him, her lips quivering, but she said nothing. White-faced and shaking, she went in to the bedroom and closed the door. Unnerved by her behaviour, he approached the door timidly and tapped again. ‘Are you alright, sister? Shall I send for your maid?’

  There was a pause, then her voice came, low but steadier than before. ‘I shall be at the the Shire Hall to support my husband.’

  With a sigh, de Revelle turned away, wishing for a world made up only of men. Then his other troubles avalanched back into his mind and he wished himself anywhere but Devon, preferably Africa or Cathay.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In which Crowner John goes to the County Court

  The intermittent rain had turned to sleet as the wind went round to the east, but the cold and wet did not dissuade scores of people crowding into the Shire Hall before the tenth hour that morning. The large bare room, with its muddy floor, was crammed with spectators and many more pushed and shoved at the archway that was the only entrance. The low platform at one end was the only free space, with its couple of chairs, some benches and stools for the officials.

  As the distant cathedral bell marked the hour, two small processions met outside the keep and merged to march the few yards to the courtroom. One came up from the undercroft, with Sergeant Gabriel leading John de Wolfe, followed by two men-at-arms. It tagged behind the other coming down the steps from the keep. Constable Ralph Morin walked before Richard de Revelle, then came Precentor Thomas de Boterellis and the two Portreeves, Henry Rifford – whose daughter had been raped a month ago – and Hugh de Relaga. At the end walked Matilda and Lucille, both heavily cloaked against the bitter weather.

  Gabriel’s battleworn face was grim as he escorted a respected friend to what might be a fatal verdict. Though of a much lower station in life, he had been a soldier like de Wolfe, and had shared common experiences both in the Holy Land and nearer home. The old warrior did not believe that Sir John was guilty of anything and strongly suspected some plot of the sheriff, whom he detested. Thankfully, he had not been ordered to shackle the coroner to take him to the Shire Hall, as was the usual practice. He would have refused, even if it meant the most drastic punishment.

  As it happened, Ralph Morin had bluntly told the sheriff beforehand that he was not prepared to put de Wolfe in chains and, with his weakening resolve about the whole conspiracy, de Revelle had not pressed the point.

  When the procession reached the wide arch of the hall, the chatter of the crowd ceased and a path opened up as the onlookers drew back. The silence was unnatural, as prisoners were usually subjected to jeers and cat-calls, even missiles, and the respectful hush was far more impressive than cheers or shouts of encouragement. As the escort walked into the hall, a few hands went tentatively out from the throng to touch de Wolfe gently as he passed.

  Pale-faced, the sheriff led the way on to the dais and stood in the centre, while other dignitaries, clerks and men-at-arms ranged themselves on either side. There was a moment’s confusion as de Revelle invited his sister to the platform, but she shook her head angrily and went to stand with her maid in the front row of the crowd, behind her husband, who was led by Gabriel and another soldier to a point directly below the sheriff.

  The crowd packed in even tighter, those around the doorway shoving to get out of the icy rain and to be within earshot. John stood outwardly calm, his black hair dishevelled and bits of straw sticking to his crumpled grey over-tunic, as those on the platform shuffled and muttered among themselves, the two clerks to the court waving parchments at each other. Ralph Morin stood behind the sheriff, a head taller and with a face like thunder. On the opposite side of the hall to the door, Jocelin de Braose, Giles Fulford, Rosamunde of Rye and a furtive man, who was presumably the apothecary, stood uneasily within a ring of Morin’s soldiers, as if they were to be protected against the wrath of the crowd. Not far away, standing with Thomas de Peyne, Edwin and one of the maids from the inn, was Nesta, her face drawn and tearful.

  After a few moments, the sheriff sat down on his central chair while the Portreeves and the Precentor subsided on to benches on each side. Then a thin figure in a flowing black robe pushed his way through the crowd at the door. The Archdeacon stepped up, uninvited, to the dais and sat down alongside Hugh de Relaga, his expression suggesting that he would tolerate no challenge to his right to be present.

  Richard de Revelle raised a hand to his chief clerk to begin the proceedings. The sheriff was dressed more soberly than usual, as if he wanted to avoid drawing any more attention to himself than necessary. He looked very ill-at-ease and he studiously avoided eye-contact with his sister or her husband as they stood below him. The clerk cleared his throat and held up a parchment roll to read the indictment.

  ‘Whereas this woman, Rosamunde, daughter of Ranulph, commonly known as Rosamunde of Rye, currently domiciled in the city of Exeter in the county of Devon, has brought her Appeal in the proper form to the Sheriff Court of the said County of Devon. The said Rosamunde alleges that she is aggrieved by the felony of ravishment, committed against the common law by one John de Wolfe, knight of the said county, within his dwelling in Martin’s Lane on the third day of January in the Year of our Lord eleven ninety-five. And that the said Rosamunde prays and appeals for justice for the said hurt against John de Wolfe, in the due manner prescribed by law.’

  He stood back and rolled up his document, looking across at the sheriff for the next stage of the proceedings. With increasing reluctance, now that the awful consequences of his ambition were almost upon him, de Revelle rose to his feet and was about to open his mouth, when a familiar deep voice boomed from below him.

  ‘Before we even start this nonsensical charade, let it be known that these proceedings are invalid and above the law! The alleged crime of rape is now one against the King’s peace and is a Plea of the Crown, to be tried by the King’s Justices. All that could be done here is to record the so-called evidence and present it to them at the next visit of the Eyre of Assize.’ Having delivered his first broadside, de Wolfe fell silent but continued to scourge those on the platform with his deep-set eyes.

  The two clerks clucked and shrugged, and looked again at the sheriff for enlightenment. He grasped at this legislative conundrum as a temporary diversion from the looming responsibility of condemning his sister’s husband to the gallows. He hauled himself to his feet to speak. ‘This court still has jurisdiction! Though there is now an alternative through the royal courts, this woman has chosen the ancient and traditional path of Appeal and she has every right to pursue it. Continue with the trial, clerk!’ He sat down again heavily, w
ith his hand nervously plucking at his beard.

  No one asked the prisoner whether he pleaded guilty or not and the clerk motioned for the soldiers to bring over the Appealer and the main witnesses, who stood in a line alongside de Wolfe, but with a man-at-arms between them and him in case a free fight developed.

  The older clerk, a grey-headed man with a large red nose studded with old abscess scars, took up another parchment. ‘Do you, Rosamunde, daughter of Ranulph, bring your Appeal against this prisoner?’

  The woman threw back her hood so that her eye, now blacker than ever, was clearly visible. ‘I do, sir! He ill used me by both assault and ravishment.’ Her voice was strong and bold, but instantly it was matched by another, harsh and just as loud.

  ‘You lying whore! Repeat that with your hand on the Scriptures and earn everlasting damnation!’

  It was no priest speaking but Matilda de Wolfe. There was a buzz of consternation in the hall and the sheriff blanched even further. How could he accuse his own sister of contempt of court or have her ejected? His mouth opened and closed, but as she said no more he decided to ignore the interruption and carry on.

  The witnesses were called one by one and lied solemnly and persuasively, apart from the leech, who was a bag of nerves. Neither de Wolfe nor his wife made any disturbance as the fabricated story unfolded. Rosamunde claimed that the previous evening, she had been going about her lawful occasions in the city, returning from devotions in the cathedral to the high street. If necessary, she declared, she could even call a priest as witness to prove that she had been kneeling at the altar of St Edmund at about the ninth hour. In the cathedral Close, she had heard footsteps behind her and, when passing through the narrow Martin’s Lane, a man called out to her. Knowing him for Sir John de Wolfe, the county coroner, she had no apprehension, even when he urgently asked her to step into his house nearby, on a matter of great importance to do with her friend, Giles Fulford. Worried and unsuspecting, she did so and as soon as they were inside, he fell upon her, kissing and groping at her bodice. She resisted fiercely and tried to scream, but he struck her in the face several times and forced her to the floor, tearing her upper clothing and scratching her neck.